My Immortelle, Lea Anne Rana

Like sweet immortelle you are, rise, oh rise, for my glory;
ever sway not from the sacred path o’ life onto you I laid,
and don’t, don’t fade in vain, nor be weary o’ serving me!

And think not that I don’t hear your voices when you pray,
nor will I ever let you, oh mine, with fear to be in dalliance;
never let these palms o’ boredom swathe you, nor be at bay;
ever lace yours in wisdom, and dance it into your elegance!

Reach for where these graces o’ being a chosen one dwell
and if you do, not a leaf o’ your breath to your feet will fall;
now, oh now, Lea Anne Rana o’ mine, listen to what I tell,
although earthly life’s a play, oh, play it safe for your soul!

Copyright © 2009 Ernilando L. Tugaff

Poetry From The Heart

A poetry penned from the heart’s like the crest of making
consented love: breath gasping, pumping out the empty trait
of room where it all started, with salty sweat still tickling
their thoughts. Faces gazing back at the ceiling like portrait

that has witnessed human’s weakness in praise of the body.

A hand’s reaching for a lit. I do not condone smoking
in bed. Though I wonder if that is satisfaction, or just
a marked signature of alter ego after having
sex. Side-table lamp burns brightly; two souls resting from lust,

letting stars watch their nudeness. And I, a night under the

veil of a pushy pen, float and twirl like an autumn leaf
detached from a purple plum tree. Then, I am punctuated
by charm of these smoke rings billowing through the wind en brief
that comes from beyond the drape of secrecy, swaying red.

Copyright © 2009 Ernesto P. Santiago

Walk Your Heart

My shadow still lives
the glow of
crazy summer in me

Walk your heart
along the pavement
of fire

Hmm! Feel it,
the touch of my lips;
breathe it,
the rosy scent of
my thoughts like blooms

Let me sip the sun
out from your cold world
into the warmness
of your soul, to be with me,
‘cause my love is warm
in winter nights too

Copyright © 2009 Ernesto P. Santiago

The Fall Of Innocence

As I left madness in the desert
With empty guns and unresolved dilemmas
A sorrow but protective shield
Made sand dunes crossing me to safety.

Towards the autumn without you
I’m heading ‘lone and taciturn
Mirage of icicle enclosed me
The carcass of my past revives

My tears can’t shed, canteen is hollow
A joker’s wild behind the wheel
The crossroad vanishes in sandstorms
As I am spit out to be skinned

                      *

I hear my giggles in green vineyards
As trees remember rusty games
The wind plays gutters in the night
Cranes fill horizon with their wave.

I need next rainstorm like the air
So it can flood my hopes for rivers
As bucks strike hunger in the wolves
I need to feel alive for winter…

                      *

Did I leave madness in the desert
Towards an autumn without you?
Or I just dreamed of freedom loosely -
A grain of gold on cacti’ spines…

Copyright © 2009 Iolanda Scripca

About the Poet: 

Iolanda Scripca lived in Eastern Europe for the first 20 years of her life, in a loving family.  Her mom was a teacher and high school principal and her dad a published writer, poet and TV producer. An unforgettable moment was her collaboration with her Dad in the translation and adaptation of a children’s book by the Bulgarian author Leda Mileva. She is a graduate of Foreign Languages and Literatures from the University of Bucharest / Romania.  Nowadays she enjoys Southern California and possesses a CA Teaching Credential.  Ms. Scripca publishes in several Romanian-American Newspapers both in Romanian and English.  www.scripca.com

The Awakened One Poetics
By Joseph S. Spence, Sr

 Book Details:

Paperback: 173 pages
Publisher: Rochak Publishing; 1 edition (August 25, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 8190381245
ISBN-13: 978-8190381246
Product Dimensions: 8.3 x 5.4 x 0.7 inches

Book Review:

The Awakened One Poetics is the latest work of award winning American poet Joseph S. Spence, Sr.  He is a college faculty member, a military veteran, and a Goodwill Ambassador for the state of Arkansas, USA.  He’s published in different forums, including the World Haiku Association; Poetinis Druskininku, Milwaukee Area College, Phoenix Magazine; Möbius Poetry, and Taj Mahal Review to list a few.

His new poetry collection The Awakened One Poetics is a book of Haiku with several inspiring themes and imageries that will delight his reader’s imagination with his touch of wit, and with captivating art works / Haiga that will invite his reader into the conversation, published in seven languages, and it is divided into five sections: Section 1) Beautiful Smiles from Japan, Poland and China; Section 2) Enchanting Smiles in Japanese, Spanish, Polish and Chinese; Section 3) Captivating Smiles from Egypt, Poland and China; Section 4) Elevating Smiles in French, Polish and Chinese; Section 5) Radiating Smiles in Patwa, Polish and Chinese.

Of course, you don’t need to be a poet, or a Haijin, to appreciate his book. Indeed, the book’s most important feature is a glossary of literary terms, which I found very useful for the reader, so I may say, as a prime presentation to the tone of The Awakened One Poetics.

In this book, poet Spence Sr. discusses his life experiences, belief, religion, and as well as his own reflection with outstanding amount of curiosity and soundness. He extracts feelings / emotions from the reader through his brilliant use of imageries and a smart choice of words. His extraordinary skill for wangling the English language is readily seen in his opening muse “Amazing Grace“, on page 2-3, a write of such pure delight, and in certainty, a breath of new hope as his poem begins:

The soul whom the Son sets free
is free indeed,
Unlocking the rusting shackles

If Basho is the world’s great Haijin and influencer of Haiku, Spence Sr. is the best student that I’ve ever encountered among the many contemporary poets studying / exploring the elegance of this poetry form. His Haiku collection, The Awakened One Poetics, features amazing poems…that wowed me. I manually copied some of them for this blog’s readers to enjoy. In many of his writings presented in this book, he helps his reader to meditate.

On page 10

Meditation
Space for gardens to grow
Flower in a rock

On page 31

Thin autumn fogs
dim light flickering ahead
fire warms man’s hands

On page 154

Moments with God
require right awareness
not fantasy

The author not only meditates on this short poetic form, but through his personal experiences that he gained from his world travels he also offers the reader of his book a means of healing. And, once you’ve finished reading this book, surely, you will depart from it with this thought in mind: Haiku can heal!

On page 69

Birds on lake
Creatively flow with waves
Buddha’s unity

On page 130

All worldly things pass
Sutra guides us—let it go…
Look to a new dawn

Likewise, noticeable in the entire collection are his poems about delicious food, for which he is widely known as the founding father or master of Epulaeryu, as I and his peers have come to know and learn this poetic form. There’s no one, but him, who brought to the poetry world this new poetry form, Epulaeryu, as an undeniable piece of written art, as seen in his poem “Coffee Perk“, on page 110.

Awakened to coffee drips
Fragrance for my taste
Sweet aroma filled this place
Ready for my dose
Like the Holy Ghost
Touch my lips—
Ahhh!

The Awakened One Poetics features over one hundred well thought Haiku poems in English, with translation in seven languages: Japanese, Polish, Chinese, Spanish, Arabic, French and Jumeikan Patwa, giving the non-English speaking readers the chance to enjoy his Haiku, and also a number of non-Haiku poems that will comfort your soul.

To those who seek reading pleasure with the aim of uplifting the mind, body and soul, I highly recommend The Awakened One Poetics for it is a book of wonders published with aim to promote one mission: to provide a positive, nice view of life and our surroundings. This rich poetry book of optimism will sure does wonder to you, believe me! I am happy to have a copy of it. What a superb addition to my library! -tsopr editor-

Note: Here, I apologized to the Author for I’ve not able to maintain the poems’ format as laid out in his book.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal was born in Mexico. He lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His new chapbook, Overcome, was published by Kendra Steiner Editions. Overcome is a collaborated effort with photographer Cynthia Etheridge.

WHEN ALL OF THIS IS OVER

When all of this is over
and there is no honey left for the bees
and all the oceans are emptied of fish,
who will smile with happiness?
The young birds will never grow
into their voices. The snakes will crawl
back into their holes overfilled with tears.
There will be no morning paper.
Women and men will turn to salt.
The drunkards will crawl into their bottles.
The streets will be silent and empty.
A sailboat in the distant sea will be
filled with cellists and a lone violinist
filling the earth with one final song.

–

STEPPING OUT

There is nothing sadder
than wearing the clothes
you wore when you were
once in love. Dying
inside, you think of her
as you remove your
socks, pants, underwear,
and shirt. Stepping out
of your shoes you feel
like a new person,
but just for a moment.

–

HEAD ON A SHOE

Resting his head on a shoe,
I see the homeless man
sleeping each morning
when I walk to work.

On the firm pavement he sleeps.
It is not so cold now.
I wonder where he
will rest his head when
it rains. What is his name?
Why is he here?
Why is anyone?

Copyright © 2009 Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

Book Review: “Magdalene & the Mermaids” by Elizabeth Kate Switaj

Book Details:

Publisher: Paper Kite Press
Publication Date: 3/3/2009
ISBN: 9780979847066
Binding: PAPERBACK
Price: $14.00
Pages: 56

About the Author:

Elizabeth Kate Switaj edits Crossing Rivers Into Twilight www.critjournal.com and is assistant editor of Inertia Magazine. Her professional experience includes teaching in cities across the US, Japan, and China as well as writing copy for a kimono import and analyzing online media. Her website: http://www.elizabethkateswitaj.net/

Book Review:

“Magdalene & the Mermaids” is a powerful collection of poems with themes that most women can relate. Certainly, this collection features a very touching and thought provoking collection of vers libre poems with a great use of metaphor that digs into all aspects of the human experience of Mary Magdalene, the biblical character, being sniped with disdainful language.

This poetry book proves that our minds often transcend the chosen words in the poem when reading it into the very core of the poet’s own visual sensation and his / her own realism to create such a chef-d’oeuvre.

I think that the opening poem To Siren In Museum on page 7 of this collection was brilliantly written. This poem, sad in its tone, yet the message was very clear. Indeed, the author in her poem shared a light of hope, despite the sign of rejection. What a positive way to end a sad feeling!

I touch my cheeks
You do not sing
and so I must for both of us

My story is nothing
left on some rock

Apology For Leaving You Behind, on page 42, is another piece of written art that I found to speak of such positive commitment in life and love, for her reader to reflect and refer to, as shown in the last concluding lines that speak for the poem as a whole.

but if I’d believed
it was love
stayed
to make love

I’d still have my legs

Sea Mother’s Love, on page 54, was a well thought masterpiece full of promises, peace and tranquillity. The poem shows a sliver of light in love that reader can feel upon reading it, and the opening stanza really charms the heart and soul of the reader to continue reading the poem till the last line.

I will take this baby
You broke in me to make
And let barnacles grow

The aforementioned poems were just some of my likings, but there are more interesting poems that will intrigue the mind of the reader, such as Cleansing Metamorphosis, page 17; Icon $Construction, page 21; Judas’ Note, page 41; Magdalene’s Revelation, page 47, to list a few.

This poetry collection “Magdalene & the Mermaids” is authentic and enjoyable to read. I’ve read it many times, but I always see myself reading it on a regular basis for I am in awe of its superbly written pieces of arts that came from deep within that generate a sequel of interest on a heroine named Magdalene. This book, I extremely recommend it not only to poetry lovers, but also to those people interested in understanding the mysteries and myths surrounding Magdalene’s life, and it is by virtue of the author’s versatility and her gift of evoking heartfelt emotion in her poetry that made me cherish this excellent collection and to know more of this poet.

Brandon S. Roy’s work has appeared in a numerous journals, including the Ottawa Arts Review, Loch Raven Review, Origami Condom, Pedestal Magazine and Pocket Change. His first book, Chaos Love Theory, has yet to be released.  He currently resides in southwest Louisiana.

Amour Charme – Sonnenzio on a line from Arlene Ang

We breathe silence and, on rare days, hold hands.
You can breathe easier at night

and forget about your troubles
Breathe in the light, breathe out, breathe in

I stand in silence and submission
And on rare occasions we hold hands, twisting and stretching space

We stand as still enemies in silence
It’s a rare performance we give each other

I drew a veve on my hand
Squeezing my palms: This pain is my code of silence

It all began with she who breathe prayers on her hands
Beautiful mademoiselle lived in silence

And flashes one of her rare smiles
I see her every once in a while

–

The House

The house is empty.
It only takes up space
where a family once lived.
There are only remains.

–

Acadiana Blood Language

We are happy here
We have lived in the same parish for nearly two hundred years
We speak three hundred year old French in one form or another
We have yet to lose our accents
We marry the same families over and over
We are usually all Catholic
We carry saint’s names
We associates traits with last names
We eat everything with rice
We all live down the street from each other
We are still weary of outsiders
We try to hold on to a system that doesn’t fit this new world
We upgrade our culture when we find it necessary
We have survive this way for centuries
We have our pride
We live this way because we love it
We love it because it’s all we have ever known
We love our area
We sometimes leave it but
We always come back home

–

Sleeping it off

The birds are drunk again -

The wine finally got to their heads
they try to flutter around
but can only flap one wing
they lost their coordination

One of them tried to soar
but crashed into the ground

Another stuck out his chest
to fight the wind
He lost

Finally their friend threw up
a green and yellow concoction
he was no good to anyone

The next day
they perched around a large cup of coffee
trying to piece the past night together

 Copyright © 2009 Brandon S. Roy

Alan Britt’s recent books are Vegetable Love (2009), Vermilion (2006), Infinite Days (2003), Amnesia Tango (1998) and Bodies of Lightning (1995). The Poetry Library (www.poetrymagazines.org.uk) providing a free access digital library of 20th & 21st century English poetry magazines with the aim of preserving them for the future has included Britt’s work published in Fire ( UK ) in their project. Britt’s work also appears in the new anthologies, American Poets Against the War, Metropolitan Arts Press, 2009 and Vapor transatlántico (Transatlantic Steamer), a bi-lingual anthology of Latin American and North American poets, Hofstra University Press/Fondo de Cultura Económica de Mexico/Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos de Peru, 2008. Britt recently served as Panel Chair for Poetry Studies & Creative Poetry for the PCA/ACA Conference 2007 in Boston and read poetry at Ramapo College in Mahwah , NJ (2009) and the WPA Gallery/Ward-Pound Ridge Reservation in Cross River , NY (2008). Nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2008. Alan currently teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University and lives in Reisterstown , Maryland with his wife, daughter, two Bouviers des Flandres, one Bichon Frise and two formerly feral cats.

MIST

Like wool strands
through a chrysalis,
mist surrounds
the white ambulance.

A heart beats,
a soul beats.

Beautiful white and brown
field mice
behind the compost pile
harvest each heartbeat.

–

PUMA

A star yells;
the chill is six
feet away.

A patio lattice
with the warmth
of a puma
rubs her diamonds
against
my naked soul.

–

YOUNG MAN REFUSING TO SAVE HIMSELF FROM THE FIRING SQUAD

Mr. Himmler, even if all my grandparents
were full-blooded Christians,
I’d still proclaim them Jews!

You, Sir, are a vile life form,
a parasite
sucking pus from the Devil’s wounds!

And, unfortunately, for you, Mr. H.,
I’ll be around years,
perhaps eons from now, watching
you fall asleep
each night with a warm gun in your mouth!

–

CREEPER FROGS
(After Duane Locke)

A reed in the throat of a creeper frog?

Or a pearl of some kind,
soaked with humidity?

I understand that birds sometimes
resemble verbs,
and adjectives
grow hair of sexual darkness
like mussels
below the black Gulf.

So, why do I wear this shirt of ashes
during my present encounter with grief?

After several days of grieving, I watch my grandfather
rise from his grave and stir blue ashes
around his fireplace, Tampa, Florida, circa 1962.

Then Grandfather nods his head
and I follow him through thick Florida palmettos
dreaming all the while of creepers’ topaz irises
submerged in the humid waistline of darkness.

–

TRUTH

The gutters slurp
white rain
like aluminum gazelles
straining into a crocodile-infested pool.

There are times
when the thirst for truth
completely overwhelms your sense
of trust.

Copyright © 2009 Alan Britt

Duane Locke lives by an ancient oak, an underground stream, and as an osprey’s home in rural Lakeland, Florida. 6,334 poems published in print magazines and ezines. Author of a 400 page poetry book «YANG CHU’s POEMS», published in April, 2009 by the Canadian publisher, Crossing Chaos. See below his book webpage:  http://www.crossingchaos.com/Yang_Chus_Poems_by_Duame_Locke.html

EMPIRICAL THATNESS

It was loud, boisterous, inside me, in my neural
Networks;
                It was loud, loud,

                                              This unknowing,
Loud in my inwardness, although outwardly I was
Quasi-silent in her voluptuous presence.

This unknowing of mine, my structure, my post-
Structure,

Sounded like a car motor inside me, a car
Motor
That has not yet recovered from its operation
In a charity hospital, an operation

Performed in an amphitheatre by interns.

Its clauses were becoming phrases,  but it dreamed
Of becoming a sentence, and if possible a paragraph.

I looked at the flesh of her arm, blonde flesh,
Sparsely freckled, it became an echo.

She said: “Wallace Stevens is my favorite poet
Of the twentieth century.  His sounds changed my conscious-
Ness.”

Her white gold hair was a garden of the
Unspoken, the unspeakable, the un-
Thought, the un-
Thinkable.”

Her hazel eyes were staring at the un-
Dulations of my history.

She asked me in her soft, low erotic voice
“If I has ever aspired to be a saint
Or metaphysician.”

I said, “I did not know.”

“Are you like the uneducated and against

Dostoevsky.”

I said, “I don’t know.”

She  paused, sipped some white wine,
And then asked,

“Have you ever thought of becoming
A monk, and tying yourself to the cross
As did Magdalene of Pazzi.”

I said, “I don’t know.”

-

MY PERFORMANCE WAS CONTRARY
TO TRADITIONAL ORIENTATIONS

Three, yes, three somersaults in a void, in
A void, three,
                      I spun around three times, spin-
Ing, whirling around in the cosmos, I

Felt like the fossil of  an extinct species pressed
Atop as outline on a rock surface where two rocks
Met to form a dark crevice, gapped at

By tourists,
Who designated the shadow-darkened space a black snake,
Or the flung whip of a costumed lackey
Forcing merry-go-round metal, gold sprayed painted braids,
To gallop as enamel-painted simulations,
Sliding up and down on a brass pole,
Or a rune with a lost meaning.

I heard the audience beneath, the sound distorted, quasi-
Inaudible, but interpreted that it was said,
“He performed three circles.”

Many said it, many said the same thing, and not one
Of them knew what they meant
When they reduced my Japanese spinning in air
To a simple geometric figures.

But that is a relationship to an audience, we
Perform what we feel to be misunderstood,
To be reduced to a familiarity that is false.

-

THINGS HAPPEN WITHOUT ANY CONSCIOUS DESIGN

A choreographer of signifieds, the ballet took place
On a rice-paper, gilt-edged scroll, unrolled,
Finite, infinite,
                       Smooth, stippled,
Telluric, tel quel, tenebrous, a twilight tulip,

All the dancers wore azure shoes, the stockings,
Waterfalls

Of

Snowflakes, disconnected atmospheres of faraways,
The earth rendered a radical, radial forever,

But when spotlight seen
                                      The pink powder on faces
Prowled

On gray gravel, blued, paths purled through
Dark bamboo,
                      The tissue-paper, backlit moon
Burned catechisms
Of a cautious chorus of chained clarinets attired
In chartreuse dresses.

If were as if the agora were an aporia.  None
Could speak the familiar language of commerce
And coercion. Communication was glossolalia,
Grandiloquent as
The grand daughters of conjunctions, colons,
Semicolons, or commas.

Glossesd by swamp savants,
                                           Cypress
Tree frogs,
                 So that every sound that arose
From a graphic inscription
                                          Had
A pale green tint.

-

A RETURN FROM THE ILLUSORY SUPERSENSIBLE REALM
(SIMPLICITY) TO THE EXISTENT SENSIBLE REALM (COMPLEXITY)

The photo, black-white: Nietzsche, his friend, pretend-
Ing
To be oxen,  goats, donkeys, stallions, or
Some
         Beast of burden and blunders, the pre-
Tension indeterminate, open, no closure,
As indeterminate
As an Enlightenment end-stopped, closed,
Clear and distinct couplet account
Of general nature,
But Nietzsche and his friend’s pretense
Seemed a prelude to an assertion
That Socrates was a great erotic
As the two posed to be the transportations
For Lou Andreas Salome
Who gripped a snake-tongue-shaped whip.

But before from impatience the beginning
With this ink that will bring solace to solitude,
The impulse to simplicity and the plain style
Must be subdued, for simplicity and the plain
Style reduce reality, the essents, to a fiction
And a fantasy, so the human race can continue
To speak a language of lies by asserting
Signifiers without a signified. All simplicity
Is a reduction of the actual and a deception.

So I start with her eyes, eyes, black-white,
In photograph,
                       And write
About the halos of hazel eyes, with specks
Under the pupil
Of raw sienna mixed one part
With two parts, white, and eyes that change colors
As the eyes hear
A nightingale singing unseen
Behind a cluster of cerise roses.

-

THE FANTASY OF LONGING TO RETURN
TO THE SOIL CANNOT SOLVE
THE PROBLEM OF MAN’S ROOTLESSNESS

Frangipani atop Vienna piano, next
To a Vietnamized-made
Rumbled pale yellow sweater,
A scene as if
From an old drawing, velvet-curtained concealed,
Room in an old fiction, as if heated, not cold,
Shirt-sleeved, legislated the flawed spectacle.

The reveries, the reversal of what appeared
As furniture and reverses the present dispensation
In a  post-metaphysical, post-foundationist
Condominium twenty miles from
Where broken sea weed golds white-sand beaches.

The talk was of how the word “barbaric”
Came into a Grecian vocabulatury because
He, a Greek, could not distinguish the sounds
Of the materiality of the signifiers
Of an alterity, another language than his own.

So I proposed a propaedeutic to
Colors as spacing of chairs
And a child’s face in Matisse
L’Atelier Rouge. She, who at fourteen
Had been the mistress of a local.
Sixty-two year old talk show host,
Had married at twenty a seventy-eight
Year old who died and left her rich,
Now at age at age twenty-two,
Wanted to talk how in the olden times,
Forty-year old women became fat,
Worn gingham dresses and stirred
With a gigantic steel spoon
In large flat steel pans  the syrup
Being made from cane juice
Just squeezed out by a mule
Being forced to move a grinder
By pulling around in a circle a pole.

I told her the story how when I was
Four years old I carried a bleached
Flour sack on my back and picked
Cotton. The thick bolls cut my fingers.
I showed her the scars atop
Each finger by the fingernail,
She kissed each one, asked me,
If  I would like to go to Las Vegas with her.
She would pay all expenses.

The scars really came from when I was
Sixteen, drunk on white port, and fell on
A broken beer bottle on the sidewalk
As I came out an “Adults-only-XXX” theatre.

Copyright © 2009  Duane Locke